


Enjoy the Silence

by Balletvamp



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 80s, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balletvamp/pseuds/Balletvamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort of AU. Arthur visits America in the 80s and finds himself at the same dance club as Alfred. Tension, Drugs, Dancing follow.  Title based on the Depeche mode song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stepping through the front doors of club, Arthur's thick brows furrowed as a wave of hot air washed over him, carrying with it the scent of sweat, liquor, lust, and the familiar perfume of desperation. The sound, which out on the street had been merely a pounding beat that was more about feeling than hearing, was now nearly deafening and each pulse of the pounding drum and strumming bass reverberated through his body, thrumming along his skin and through his blood.

Moving past the black clad, heavily muscled bouncer, Arthur gave the man a cursory glance, taking in the tattoos and the scars and smirked to himself as he started down the cement stairs towards the dance floor, and more importantly the bar. After being to countless punk shows back home, it was going to take more than some tattoos and a smattering of scars to impress him.

Tonight, he'd dressed as though he were planning to go to such an event, with spiked hair, ripped clothes, enough metal in pins and piercings to set off a detector from three yards, and enough kohl 'round his eyes to be riding the line between purposefully wicked looking and blatantly homosexual. Looking around as he reached to bar, he noted that his sense of fashion was a bit out of date, as everyone here seemed to favor the blinding neons, ridiculously teased hair, and shoulder pads that had come with New Wave.

Then again, he thought with a sardonic grin, the folks this side of the pond never did have any sense of taste.

He'd just taken a sip of his scotch when his eyes, wandering aimlessly over the scantily clad, over cosmetic-ed bodies on the dance floor, lit upon a familiar form. Nearly spewing the alcohol, he cursed his fortunes. The low lights still managed to light a glow upon the blonde hair, longer now than last time he'd seen Alfred, Arthur noted. Cor, but he was handsome. The tall American was obviously taking to the style and sensibility of the 1980s, if his ripped and splatter painted jeans, tight tank and…really, was his denim jacket truly bedazzled? Arthur shook his head and tried not to snicker, also noting the other man's large dark shades. He was the sort of prat to wear sunglasses in a dark club, wasn't he.

Of all the shite luck, he purposefully swallowed, the liquor burning as it went down too hard and too fast, I had to pick the one bleeding club amongst hundreds of clubs that that arse haunts.

His initial reaction was to leave, straightaway, before the other noticed him. Turning, he set the unfinished drink on the sticky bar, and then moved to push his way to the door. Probably, he could have succeeded in escaping without detection, had he not spared one last glance towards the dance floor, hoping for a final fleeting glance of the American.

Not being able to pick him out from the swarm of bodies, Arthur paused midstep, forcing people moving around him to grumble and flow around him. A sudden grip on his shoulder made the Brit startle and spin around, putting him face to face with Alfred, whose shit-eating grin was right in character.

"Arthur!" the taller man exclaimed, nearly vibrating with his usual jubilant attitude, like a young puppy with a new toy, "I thought it was you! What're you doing here? Still in that whole punk scene, huh? You look badass! I could still kick your skinny Brit butt though!"

Refraining the urge to duff up the younger man, Arthur gritted his teeth and took a breath. He made an obvious point of looking Alfred up and down before replying.

"Don't be daft," he retorted and waved at the other, "Have you gotten a look at yourself in the mirror? That getup is complete rubbish."

Alfred cocked his head to the side, as though watching a vaguely entertaining but completely bonkers show. His hair spray or gel was apparently beginning to lose it's hold in the heat of the club, as blonde locks were drifting their way down to hang in his face, giving him a rather endearing look, if Arthur were to admit it to himself. Then the American opened his mouth and chased away such tender sentiments.

"Dude, speak English will you?" he whined, "I've no idea what just came outta your mouth!"

"Speak English?" Arthur sputtered, looking disconcerted, "What the bollocks do you think I'm-" He shook his head, rubbing his temples with two fingers as Alfred just gazed at him, smirking.

"I think you should talk less," Alfred somehow managed to purr over the roar of the music, pulling Arthur away from the exit and onto the dance floor, pressing the smaller boy dangerously close against his body, "and dance more."

"Alfred…" he managed to murmur, certainly not to the decibel level he'd be heard and, indeed, Alfred appeared to not have heard, losing himself in the music, head bobbing, lips in a gentle, somehow secretive smirk.

A part of him, likely the prudent and more educated part, told him he should interrupt this now and bugger off, before things got out of hand which, around Alfred, they were undoubtably likely to. There were good reasons the two of them were no longer together, though they'd likely forever share a special sort of relationship.

Lamentably, the larger part of him was already entranced by the younger man's charisma and, let's be truthful, his sexual magnetism. Which, it should be said, he was doing a rather marvelous job of flaunting presently, pressing himself up against Arthur and managing to move both their bodies fluidly in time to the beat.

How simple it would be to just submit to Alfred's flirtations, siren song though they might be. No matter how much time progressed between dalliances, and no matter the wounds to his heart and ego, Arthur always seemed to find himself back in the other man's orbit; a fragile moth to a hungry flame.

Not this time, the sandy blonde thought to himself, and moved to pull away. Today, today he was going to assert himself, have a bit of dignity and pride. Alfred might be the paramount power now, but Arthur had been sovereign once. He was through letting Alfred exploit his benevolence and he was of a mind to tell the cheeky bastard so. Opening his mouth, he took a breath to begin what promised to be a lengthy tirade, but, seeing Alfred's uncertain frown, he close his mouth once more.

How did the American always manage to look so very like a kicked puppy? Arthur couldn't even see his eyes, but knew they'd be wounded and uncertain. For someone who fancied himself such a brave and daring hero, Alfred certainly could be easily distressed by a certain few.

With a derisive snort, the Brit reached up and pulled off the offending sunglasses. Just as he'd expected, Al's wounded look was greatly intensified when his eyes were revealed. Arthur also noted, with mild concern and a vague sense of suspicion, the other's eyes were markedly glazed and a bit too wide.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" again the shorter man was surprised he could hear the hesitant voice over the noise of the music and other conversations, "Did you not want to be here?" Arthur could imagine the unspoken 'with me?' easily enough.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's not that," he began, brow furrowing as he gathered his thoughts, "It's not that I don't want to be here, I merely believe it's better…for the both of us, if I wasn't." Even as the words left his mouth, he realized how trite and cliched they sounded. How hurtful in their over simplification of complicated emotions.

Even now, after all this time, it didn't take much to summon up memories of that chilly October day; the driving rain, the tears, and the blood seeping slowly through his heavy woolen red coat until his body was as miserably drenched as his soul, drowning in a tide of emotions. Emerald eyes had stared dully from beneath heavy brows, taking in the sight of his lover's leather boots in the mud before him, while his mind sought to grasp at fleeting rational thoughts, an explanation of how this could have come to pass.

"You used to be... so big...," Alfred's voice had held an inflection of surprise, almost wonder, and yet it had reached Arthur's ears with a quality of sadness and disenchantment. Even in his jilted state of mind, he had known that he had failed the other, had betrayed Alfred even as he himself had been forsaken. Filled with anguish and heartache, on his knees in the dirt, he had mourned not only for himself but for the one whose hand he had forced. The wisdom of age and experience had not saved him from ruin, it had merely whispered at the possibilities, had fed the fire of his doubts and fears, until he'd clung so tightly to his love, he had become that which he'd feared.

Standing with the lanky blonde now, Arthur could see the sting of the old wound mirrored back at him from the usually cheerful face. The haunting of memory was written in the lines now appearing on Alfred's face as his countenance fell, making the youth look older and wiser than his years.

"Look at what you have now, Alfred," he spoke, wanting to banish the pain from his former lover's face, hand ghosting along the other's arm, "You're grown up, strong, well off, able to take care of yourself and have your pick of partners, you've no need for an old sod like me."

It appeared this was not the appropriate response, at least not judging by the anguished look Alfred offered him in return.

"You know," came the American's voice, accompanied by bitter laughter, "for a smart guy, you're pretty damn stupid." Without waiting for Arthur to stop giving him a flabbergasted look, he gathered the shorter man to himself, pressing them close together.

"Alfr-" Arthur's protest was cut off by a hand cupping his chin and tilting his face upwards. The Brit was silenced by the intensity and seriousness in the other's cerulean gaze, the dilated pupils reminding him he still held Alfred's sunglasses clutched tightly in his sweaty grip.

"Shhh," Alfred's voice was husky, but somehow Arthur didn't think it was with lust or inebriation. This was more the sound of need, of desperation, "I know you always think I talk too much and wish I'd shut up, but this time, I have something really important to say. So give me a chance to say it. I don't want my pick of partners. I want you, Artie."

He didn't even bristle at the nickname, he found himself so hypnotized by the spell of Alfred's speech. A part of him, a steadily diminishing part, told him he had to speak up, to bring a stop to this tomfoolery before it went too far. But when you got to be his age, you began to grow weary of the fighting, of the continual careful mastery of thoughts and emotions, of being forever on guard. So while he found his mouth opening, there were no words to follow the motion.

"No, let me finish," the American was speaking again, now bringing his palm to rest gently, ever so gently, against Arthur's flushed cheek, "I needed to grow up, needed to find out who I was, without you. I know I hurt you, as you did me, but I didn't want to get lost in you, Art, not so soon, not before I could be my own person. I wanted you to want ME, not an idea of me that you built up in your mind. I had to become someone you could be proud of; someone I was proud of being."

Was he tearing up? No, that couldn't be, he'd only had one drink and he was no light-weight. He would have tried to hide the welling moisture in his eyes, but with Alfred holding his face, it was fairly impossible. The touch, the heat, the music pounding in his bones, the other's scent curling in his mind; it was all too much. He flushed a darker shade of scarlet as tears began to spill over his cheeks.

"But Arthur," his name was velvet on the American's tongue and a calloused thumb was tenderly brushing away the tears that fell impetuously from kohl lined eyes, "I AM my own person now and I can offer myself to you on equal footing. Arthur, it's you I want. You I love. It was always you."

The English man pulled back a little, hoping the low light would help conceal the fresh tears welling in his eyes, as those malachite orbs swiveled to take in the rest of the dance floor. He looked around, searching the shadows for those others, the false paramours who'd won over the golden boy in the years since they'd parted on that ill-fated rainy day; that lustrous haired, silken voiced French bastard, the delicate and dangerous Japanese boy with dark hair and dark eyes, or any of the rest of the suitors wooing with vows of allegiance, security, and salvation.

Seeing none of them, he let the implication of Alfred's words wash over him as he turned his gaze back to the American. His mind was hazy, full of memories of menace and of joy, awash with promises of the future, but most of all he was caught up in the dazzlement of the present. Joy and trepidation tangled his heart in knots and his hands, fingers longer and more delicate than most men's, rose to clutch at Alfred's jacket, the denim stiff beneath his palms.

He wanted to believe the other's words, was desperate to trust in this which had for so long been a dream, a secret (or perhaps not so very secret) wish that had so long gone unfulfilled it had become the sort of treasured longing that becomes part of the fabric of one's reality. But, he certainly never expected to have gratification of this particular coveted yearning. He and Alfred were fast friends, surely, and sometimes even found themselves in each other's beds but always avoiding that word.

Now Alfred was using that word and part of him was of the mind he should push the other man away. There was no possibility the American twit meant what he was saying…was there? It was raving bonkers, surely? But, even through the fog of the recreational drugs the other had obviously been imbibing in, he could see the truth and utter sincerity in the blonde's azure gaze.

So instead of rebuffing Alfred, Arthur found himself leaning forward, closing the meager distance between them, eyes drifting closed as the younger man met him halfway, their lips joining with a veritable electric jolt. He was fairly certain his knees had lost their ability to hold up his body, so it was rather fortunate Alfred was holding him tight enough to nearly lift him off his toes.

Neither wasted any time with propriety or niceties, mouths moving against each other with a desperate hunger. Tongues explored familiar territories, swirling together, a war of dominance where neither would gain the upper hand and neither would bemoan the stalemate. It was the kind of passionate kiss that is accompanied by a musical crescendo in films and often evinced with fireworks. Not that Arthur would be likely to make a Hollywood comparison so droll as all that.

There was a cloying sweet taste on Arthur's tongue and he found himself smiling against Alfred's mouth, knowing the other boy had been drinking one of those sickeningly saccharine cocktails he enjoyed so much. Honestly, sometimes the American chap had appalling appetites. Right about now though, all he was thinking was how very easily he could get addicted to this sugary sensation.

The throbbing beat of the bass thumped in time with his speeding heart as Alfred's hands slipped beneath his shirt, stroking calloused fingers over his spine, causing a low moan and an involuntary shiver of pleasure.

"You're just a wanton little harlot tonight, aren't you?" Alfred whispered close to his ear, hot voice honeying his skin and making the Brit gulp, blood rushing to his face and regions lower. The American knew talking dirty aroused him, made him weak and willing.

"Let's have a wicked deadly time here and then I'll take you home and really make you scream," he continued, practically purring into Arthur's ear.

Drawing back a bit, the tall xanthous haired youth smirked at the Englishman and rolled his hips oh so slowly against the shorter boy, eliciting another needy moan. Then with a throaty chuckle, he pulled something small out of his pocket and put it in his mouth before leaning back in for another searing kiss.

It took a few moments for Arthur's brain to catch up with the rest of his body and by that time something small and cube-shaped was melting over his tongue. Only then did he understand the true cause behind the candied taste of Alfred's mouth and he drew back with a wide-eyed gasp, fingers going to his lips in shock. Had Alfred just drugged him?


End file.
